


Adventures in Modern-Land

by Thefanfictor



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: "after all she's not even in the show", "why is mary dickinson in this?" you ask, Alternate Universe - College/University, Arguing, Banter, Because I can, Bickering, Coffee, Couple-y shit, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Idiots in Love, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Tea, The Courier is a beleaguered TA, Violins, chapter titles are 1776 quotes, i have a perfect explanation as to why i put her in here, just try and stop me, never fear, they're all queer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefanfictor/pseuds/Thefanfictor
Summary: A collection of miscellaneous fics about the 1776 gang's hijinks in a modern AU; e.g., shippy stuff, random ideas, chapters where the entire thing consists of texting/emails, etc.  There's no real plot, and the timeline is vague at best.  Updates whenever I feel like it.





	1. But, Mr. Adams

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh, enjoy, y'all.

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Our Declaration

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

You'll be pleased to know that I have skillfully negotiated my way into getting us an extra three weeks to write the essay that would have otherwise been due tomorrow.  Feel free to congratulate me (repeatedly, if you would).  I say this because now we need someone to actually write the essay.

Despite an enormous amount of interference by ALL parties involved (remind me to have a word with Franklin as soon as I'm finished with this), I've also managed to consult the others in our group and we've determined that the writer of said essay must be you.  Therefore, I expect you to finish and send me a first draft by Wednesday for our collective scrutiny.  We'll even help you edit; just write, and the rest will take care of itself.  Get going as soon as possible, and I'll check up on you every few hours.   

John Adams

 

To: John Adams  
From: Thomas Jefferson  
Subject: Re: Our Declaration

Dear John,

First of all, I'm not writing your essay, so kindly do it yourself.  Or, if that's too difficult for you, there are three people besides the two of us in this group who could write it; why don't you ask one of them? Martha and I have had this visitation day planned for literal months, and I refuse to put it off to write something that you could so easily finish yourself.  Sorry, but I'd rather see my girlfriend than do homework, no matter what it is.  To summarize: not interested.

Secondly, you don't need to address me as Mr. Jefferson whenever you send me an email.  This is the 21st century, we're college students, and we're  _friends_.  Formality really isn't necessary at this point (it's appreciated, but unnecessary).

Thomas

 

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

Fuck off about my salutations.  I will address you however I wish, thank you, and that's really beside the point, anyway.  Nice try, but you can't distract me that easily.    

What matters is that YOU need to write our essay so we can get an A on it.  Seriously, that's all you need to do.  Your Martha can wait, I'm sure she won't mind if you skip this one visit.  You'll have plenty of time to visit her later.  Right now, you need to focus on writing, and you can do that best by disentangling yourself from these sorts of emotions for now.  Now get to work and don't email me again until you've finished your first draft.  

John Adams

 

To: John Adams  
From: Thomas Jefferson  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear John,

I'm not writing that stupid essay for you.  I didn't even want to be a part of this group in the first place, so really, all of this is your fault.  I'm sorry if that offends you, but, you see, I really don't care.  Tomorrow I will be leaving to see Martha (yes, I'm sure she'd mind if I skipped this visit) and you can't stop me, so don't even try; it won't end well.  We've been putting this off for months, and you aren't going to stop me now.

On the topic of your statement about having some reasons as to why no one else can write it, I'd love to know what those are.  You won't change my mind, but if you do come up with anything, it'd be great if I could actually see it.  Thank you for your time.

Thomas

 

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

I CAN and WILL stop you, and I will do it with PHYSICAL FUCKING FORCE if necessary!!! I am going to kick your ass, Thomas Jefferson.  Prepare yourself for my unbridled rage.

As for your request, I will gladly oblige! I will give you your reasoning and you will see how right I am, and you will have no choice but to stay here and write this! It is as follows:

Franklin simply refuses to write it (pity, this whole thing would be a lot easier if he did), Sherman's grammar is complete shit (his words, not mine, don't attack me), and Livingston has to go home for some family reunion-related thing.  I'm sure as hell not doing it, so that leaves you.  Now that you have received reasoning, you may get started! Please get started.

John Adams

 

To: John Adams  
From: Thomas Jefferson  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear John,

I have carefully examined the evidence provided, and after thinking over the matter for a considerable amount of time, I have come to the conclusion that you are completely incapable of stopping me and I am going back to Virginia and meeting Martha.  You're 5'8", and you cannot and will not kick my ass.  I apologize if that offends you.  Have fun without me.  Additionally, all those reasons are complete bullshit, if you don't mind my saying so.  If you find some  _good_ reasoning, that would be nice, but it's not required.  Please leave me alone.

Look, I'd love to help you out (not really), and yet, I'm booked.  Truly sorry, but so it goes.

Thomas

 

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

You're a terrible person, you know that? You could just write the essay, but no.  Instead you spend your time INSULTING me when I've done absolutely NOTHING wrong.  This is truly thankless work.  And yes, your statement DOES offend me, thank you very much! I'm completely capable of kicking your ass, and I'll do it if you don't WRITE THE DAMN ESSAY!!!

Finally, those were perfectly valid reasons and you know it.  Why don't you come up with your own reasoning why anyone else COULD do it, hm? I'm waiting.  See, it's not as easy as I make it look.  Cite your sources in MLA fucking format and prepare yourself for battle.  I have a knife.

John Adams

 

To: John Adams  
From: Thomas Jefferson  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear John,

Fine.  Fine! I will attempt to reason with you and you will leave me alone.  Can't you just stop emailing me and move onto some other distraction you can obsess over (silly question, I know)?

Franklin is more than capable of writing the thing (although I suspect if we gave him complete control we'd find the entire thing riddled with puns), he just doesn't want to, and if there's anyone more stubborn than he is, it's you. 

On a similar note, Sherman's writing is fine, he just uses the whole grammar thing as an excuse so he doesn't have to do anything in group projects.  Besides, that's what editing is for.  You know, the thing you said you'd do if I wrote it?

I get that Livingston is going home, but so am I.  What makes his situation any different from mine?

Last but not least, there's you.  You're an excellent writer, and I'm sure if you wrote the essay it would be every bit as good as if I wrote it, probably better.  I hope this is satisfactory.

Thomas

 

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our Declaration

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

I asked, and apparently Livingston is going home because he has to assist with a baby or something.  You do not, or I'd be sending you back to Virginia myself.

I read your email and understand your reasoning (to an extent), but could you please do it anyway? It would just be so much easier for everyone (well, except you, I guess), and if I wrote it they'd all hate it, no matter how amazing it would be (but thank you for the compliment).  Plus, you'd have the satisfaction of a job well done. 

Look, I get that you want to go home, I really do.  I get that you want to see and/or fuck your girlfriend.  But I'm away from home and my girlfriend too, so if I can manage, I'm sure you can as well.  I expect a draft in your next email, and if the next thing you send me isn't a draft, don't send it.  Please don't waste any more of our time.

John Adams

 

To: John Adams  
From: Thomas Jefferson  
Subject: My Answer

Dear John,

No.

Thomas

 

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Re: My Answer

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

Right now I'm going to do something I have only done three times before.  I hope you're happy.

I am literally begging you to stay here and help.  I actually like you more than the average person, and you are one of few people who don't irritate me on a daily basis.  True, you have several habits that are less than satisfactory, but on the whole, you are a pleasant individual, and the only person who I can trust to write this that isn't me (or Franklin, but I can also trust you not to make everything into a pun/sex joke).  If you don't do it, there is literally no hope for any of us.

That being said, I have deliberated upon the matter for an hour or so, and I believe I have come up with a solution that would satisfy everyone.  You would like to go home to Virginia in order to see your girlfriend, but you seem to have overlooked that she is perfectly capable of coming here herself! Therefore, I (or you, whichever works) shall send for her immediately, if you will agree to it, and I see no reason for you not to agree to it.  If and when you accept my proposal, you two can bang and we can all pass this course.

John Adams

 

To: John Adams  
From: Thomas Jefferson  
Subject: Re: Re: My Answer

Some of that stuff in the second paragraph almost sounded like compliments.  I'm impressed at you, John.

Thank you for trying so hard to be helpful.  Your proposed solution is a really good idea.  Actually, I'm kinda wondering why I didn't think of it myself.  I promise I'll talk to Martha as soon as I can, and get to work on the essay.  When I send it to you, please be gentle with your criticism (if such a word exists in your vocabulary). 

Thomas

 

To: Thomas Jefferson  
From: John Adams  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: My Answer

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

Thank god.

John Adams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this! If you did, please leave kudos and/or comments, they're greatly appreciated. Stay tuned for the next chapter.


	2. Too Many Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neddy wants a pet. Lyman thinks this is a terrible idea. They compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a true story. That's all I'm going to say. Also, I have no idea how college works, so if you spot any glaring inaccuracies, please feel free to tell me.

"We should get a cat."

"What?" Startled, Lyman Hall glanced over at the source of the statement: his boyfriend.  Neddy had draped himself over the back of their couch so that he was lying upside down, legs crossed at the ankles.  Strands of gold hair flopped over his eyes and he had to keep blowing them away, scowling.

"We aren't getting a cat." Lyman returned to his papers, frowning at the amount of work he had.  At this rate, he'd have gray hair by 25.

"Why not?" The pout Neddy gave him was almost adorable enough to make him reconsider.

Almost.  "Because one, we're both college students, so there's no way we could afford it, and two, neither of us would be able to take care of it.  I'm too busy, and you . . . well, you just wouldn't."

"Hey!" Neddy glared at him, then decided it wasn't worth the effort to be offended.  "You're right, though, I wouldn't.  So what about, say, a lizard?"

"No."

"Hamster?"  

"No."

"Bird?"

"No."

"Fish?"

" . . . Ask me again next week."

And that was that.  Well, sort of.  The week passed relatively uneventfully, so Lyman thought the whole thing would blow over and Neddy would forget about it, as he did with most things.  It seemed, however, that this was not like most things, and fate had something else in mind.

"So, how 'bout that fish?" Neddy asked, pressing a quick kiss to Lyman's hairline.  He had to admit it was a persuasive argument, but he wasn't about to give in that easily.

"I really don't think we're in a good position to take care of any animals right now, " Lyman returned.  "I was thinking maybe something . . . smaller."

"Smaller than a fish?" His boyfriend looked dubious.  "What are you suggesting?"

"How about a plant?" Lyman said carefully.  "Just as, you know, an experiment."

That adorable pout was back.  "A plant? I don't know.  I was hoping for something more . . . alive."

"Are you suggesting that plants aren't alive?" Lyman teased, leaning up to press a kiss to his boyfriend's cheek.

"No, I just---" Neddy scowled, but gave up when he received another kiss.  "Fine.  What kind of plant?"

"Oh . . . um . . . I hadn't thought that far ahead.  Actually, I was kinda expecting you to say no." He spent a moment deliberating.  Then, inspiration struck.  "How about a pitcher plant? They're easy to take care of, and they're carnivorous; they eat flies."

Neddy considered this for a bit.  "I guess we do have a fly problem."

Their local nursery was small, messy, and confusing, but it was not lacking in pitcher plants, which was explained to them when they finally managed to find a help desk.  A pretty salesgirl whose nametag read "Henrietta" assisted them in finding a rack of the aforementioned plants, and they spent a good ten minutes bickering about which one they wanted.  Well, Neddy mostly complained about getting dirt on his best white sweater, to which Lyman retorted that maybe he shouldn't have worn such a nice sweater to buy a plant anyway.  The salesgirl who'd helped them watched this argument with a look of growing irritation.

This long and laborious process eventually resulted in a small pitcher plant in a clay pot, a small bag of soil for said plant, and a folded-up brochure on proper plant care.  After another few minutes of arguing, it was decided that they would transport it in the cupholder of their car, where it sat looking innocuous while Neddy eyed it warily.

"Stop staring at it like that.  It's not going to attack you."

"You don't know that."

"I'm pretty sure I do.  Now, where do we want to put this? Should it go on the windowsill? I think we should put it on the windowsill."

Onto the windowsill it went, doing a lovely job of brightening up their apartment.  Lyman poured some water into the pot, just in case, and they left it alone.

***

 **nedward:** hey john guess what

 **nedward:** JOHN

 **cool &considerate: **YES Neddy, what IS it?!

 **nedward:** lyman bought me a plant :)

 **cool &considerate:** HAH GAY!

 **nedward:** i AM gay

 **cool &considerate: **yeah, i know.

 **cool &considerate: **wait, so he actually entrusted you with the care and keeping of a living thing?

 **nedward:** is that so hard to believe

 **cool &considerate: **um.  yes.

 **nedward:** exCUSE ME WHAT

 **cool &considerate: **i'm just saying that you're like, the least responsible person I know.

 **nedward:** well now you're just being an asshole

***

 **nedward:** help john's being an asshole

 **christmas:** and . . . which part of this is surprising?

 **nedward:** good point.  but still please help

 **christmas:** what the shit do you want me to do??

 **nedward:** get over there and make him stop!!!

 **christmas:** ahahahaha, yeah, no can do.  i'm busy right now.

 **nedward:** with what?!

 **christmas:** homework that's due in exactly one (1) hour

 **nedward:**  how is that more important than me and my problem??? you can just not turn it in right

 **christmas:** neddy.  you're john's friend, so i'm obligated to like you, but sometimes you say shit that makes me want to kick your ass.

 **nedward:** understood.  have a nice day :)

***

The plant seemed to be taking well to its new environment; at least, its caretakers managed not to kill it during its first week.  On the occasion that someone visited their apartment, it made for an excellent conversation piece.  It even helped out with the fly problem.  However, there was one notable near-disaster in the early days of their plant ownership, and of course, it was all Dickinson's fault.

The reason he'd come over in the first place was to work on one of those dreaded group projects, but as was becoming the norm for these things, they got off-track about two seconds in.  After the standard amount of bitching about the weather, John wandered toward the windowsill, Neddy shadowing him, and paused to examine the plant.

"What's this?" 

"It's a plant," Neddy said, not even trying not to roll his eyes.  "I told you about it yesterday." Under his breath, he added, "And you call  _me_ forgetful."

"Right, yeah.  Sorry, I'm still trying to get used to the idea of you owning a plant.  I thought you hated them." He poked at its leaves as if to illustrate his point.

"I do  _not_ hate them!" Neddy said indignantly.  "Anyway, it was Lyman's idea."

John ceased his examination to mull that one over.  "I actually do remember you saying something about that."

"You see? I told you--hey, stop doing that!" This last bit was in response John's continued poking of the plant.

"Why? It doesn't care."  Scraping a fingernail along the side of the pot, he smirked at Neddy's wince.  "Fine, fine, I'll stop." He gave his friend's shoulder a shove, inadvertently sending him falling backwards into the windowsill.  The hand he reached out to brace himself smacked the pot, and to his chagrin, knocked it over.

They both froze.  "Oh shit," Neddy mumbled.  "Don't tell Lyman."

John snorted.  "Alright," he said with a long-suffering sigh.  "I shall be the savior of your ego."

"I love you."

"I know." Carefully, he gripped the pot by the rim and stood it up again, brushing the spilled dirt off the sill.  "I'm great like that."

With that crisis averted and Lyman none the wiser, the logical next step was to bring their pitcher plant into debate, and maybe reduce complaints about the flies in the process.  After all, what better way to not damage the thing they'd spent a week protecting than to take it to a room full of very angry people where tables were occasionally overturned?

It took an impressive amount of time for anyone to notice.  Business went on as usual, and no one so much as batted an eyelash when they set the plant down at the corner of a desk.  To be fair, it was a rather small plant and was mostly obscured by the people and/or things surrounding it, but they were still a respectable way into the session before someone made a comment.  

That someone was Joseph Hewes.  "What is that?" He asked, tapping Neddy on the shoulder and gesturing toward the plant as if unsure what to make of it.

"It's a pitcher plant." He was getting rather tired of explaining this.  Also just tired in general.  Adams was droning on about something at the front of the room and he'd been trying to decide whether to pay attention or take a nap.

"A . . . huh?"

Lyman glanced up, momentarily distracted from trying to make sense of whatever Adams was saying.  "A pitcher plant," he said.  "We bought one about a week ago.  It's carnivorous.  It eats flies."

"Did somebody say flies?" John Hancock had caught wind of their conversation.  "Because we're not having that stupid argument about the windows again."

"Yes we are," five people said at the same time.  Hancock's groan carried all the way to the back of the room.

Fighting laughter, Lyman raised his hand to clarify the matter.  "We brought a pitcher plant to debate today.  Sorry if it's a problem; we just figured it might be . . . um . . . helpful.  For . . . something."

"I move that we should be allowed to keep it in here for the rest of the session," Neddy said.  "Do I hear a second?"

"Seconded," said someone from over by the windows.  There came a stunned pause, and James Wilson looked a little surprised to find everyone staring at him.  "What? I like plants."

"Any objections?" Hancock asked. 

Richard Henry Lee raised a hand.  "What's a pitcher plant?"

"An excuse to open up a fucking window!" someone shouted back.  It took another five minutes to restore order. 

Neddy opted to take a nap.  The plant didn't seem to mind.

***

 **cool &considerate: **so, where'd you guys get the plant?

 **The Doctor:** oh, hi john!

 **The Doctor:** how are you doing?

 **cool &considerate: **fabulous as usual.  so, where'd you guys get the plant?

 **The Doctor:** right, yeah, that.

 **The Doctor:** just the local plant nursery.  it's only about 10 minutes away if you're driving. 

 **The Doctor:** why do you ask?

 **cool &considerate: **i'm thinking about buying one for the apartment.

 **cool &considerate: **i would've asked Neddy, but he's probably already forgotten.

 **The Doctor:** yeah, he probably has.

 **The Doctor:** do you want the address?

 **cool &considerate: **that would be appreciated.

***

"Hey, Lyman . . . babe . . ."

"What?" Lyman shut his book (and immediately regretted not having a bookmark) to look down at his boyfriend, who had his head in Lyman's head.

"Don't you think our windowsill looks a little . . . empty?" His eyes were a little too wide to look innocent.

"Um . . . no?" He thumbed through the pages of his book, trying to get back to where he'd been.  "I think it looks fine.  Why?"

There was exactly too long of a pause before Neddy spoke up again.  "Well . . . I think we should get some more plants."

Silently, Lyman wondered what he had created.  "More plants?" He asked.  "Isn't one enough?"

"No." It didn't seem possible for Neddy's eyes to get any wider, but he tried his best.  "It would look very nice if we had more, especially if we added some variety."

"Since when are you an interior decorator?" Lyman asked, amused.

"Why, I've always been an interior decorator!" He attempted to spread his arms but ended up hitting Lyman in the face.  "Sorry."

"It's fine." Lyman sighed.  "What kind of plants do you want?"

"Well, since you're asking . . . "

***

Behind the counter of the nursery's help desk, the same pretty salesgirl stopped chewing her gum.  "I'm sorry, you said you wanted  _how_ many plants?

"Seven, please," Lyman said with his best smile.  "Do you have any recommendations?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Deciding whether to refer to someone by their first or last name is always a hassle (especially in the, uh, history fandom). I picked Neddy because everyone calls him that in-show and I don't like either of his names anyway.  
> 2\. 10 points to the Hogwarts house of anyone who can figure out who "christmas" is ;)  
> 3\. I like to think that Lyman is a little intimidated by Dickinson because he's such a fabulous asshole, so he's always on edge whenever they talk.  
> 4\. If you enjoyed this, please take a little time out of your day to give this a kudos and/or comment (comments are infinitely appreciated)! Thank you for reading, and stay tuned for the next chapter.


	3. He Plays The Violin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson plays the violin, and violins tend to attract audiences (feat. Martha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to preface this by saying that I don't know how to play the violin. I took some classes in fourth grade, but that's about it. *patiently waits for some aggravated violinists or perhaps the ghost of Thomas Jefferson himself to come smack me upside the head*

Generally speaking, college tends to be a fairly stressful time in one's life.  And when Thomas Jefferson got stressed, he played the violin.  He'd been doing this for so long he couldn't even remember why he started, but nevertheless, whenever the going got tough, he could be counted upon to find his instrument and put it to good use.  

The only problem with this coping mechanism was that few people actually knew he played the violin, which tended to result in awkward, unwanted conversations with people who stumbled across him.  He kept _meaning_ to notify those with whom he spent his time that they might find him messing around with a violin at almost any hour of the day, but somehow, it always slipped his mind.  This meant his acquaintances had to find out the hard way.

One unfortunate instance occurred when he'd found himself in the all-too-common situation of trying to put off homework.  He'd already reorganized his closet, vacuumed his dorm twice, and tested all his highlighters to make sure they worked, so he was rapidly running out of excuses.  He was even beginning to consider folding laundry when, as they so often did, his eyes drifted over to his violin case.  Before he knew it, he'd extracted the instrument and started brushing up on scales.   _Just a few minutes of practicing,_ he told himself.   _Probably._

However, before a few minutes could turn into four hours, the sound of voices outside his door jolted him out of his music-induced reverie, and he nearly dropped his violin.  Still jumpy, he lowered his bow to the strings once more just as the door to his room flew open, smacking against the wall and startling him out of his swivel chair.  The voices stopped.

Bracing himself against his desk, body twisted into a pretzel, he tried to get all his limbs back in order and glare at the people who'd interrupted him at the same time.  While cradling a violin.  Needless to say, he had his work cut out for him.  His fingers finally wrapped around one arm of the swivel chair, but even so, it took a few seconds for him to orient himself toward the door.

Ben Franklin and his girlfriend of the week stared back at him.  "Oops," the girlfriend said.

As usual, it was Franklin who diffused the situation with his signature unshakable cheer (a skill Thomas yearned to possess).  He smiled in a knowing way and laid a hand on the girl's arm.  "Deb, I think we got the wrong room.  Sorry for, ah, walking in on you, Tom---wait." He stopped, eyes zeroing in on the instrument in the crook of Thomas' arm.  "Is that a violin?"

Thomas had to fight against the urge to say "duh".  "Um . . . yeah?"

Franklin tilted his head, and Thomas could practically see the gears turning behind his round glasses.  After a second or two, his grin widened.  "Nice.  Bet your girlfriend  _loves_ that." He wriggled his eyebrows and Thomas went red.  "You go back to  _fiddling_ around with that thing and we're just gonna . . ."

The door slammed shut behind them.  Picking himself up off the floor, it occurred to him that Franklin's last comment had been a pun.  Goddamn it. 

Even after that little misadventure, giving his friends and acquaintances a heads-up about the violin still didn't occur to him.  He'd kind of assumed Franklin would take the liberty of informing anyone who might care (and probably those who wouldn't), and went about his business as usual.  This came back to bite him roughly two weeks later.  John Adams had finally coerced him into writing that stupid essay (why was he constantly being stuck with all the work on group projects?), but although he was technically supposed to be working, his willpower had taken an extended vacation to a lovely tropical island with a smoothie.  Martha couldn't get away for another week and a half, and without her, his brain stubbornly refused to cooperate.  He was well and truly screwed.

"Fuck this," he muttered, starting resentfully at his blank Word document.  "Fuck everything." To avoid feeling guilty about not working, he shut the computer and reached for his violin.  The nearest music stand lay just out of reach from his current position, so a song he could play from memory seemed like the best option.  His first thought? Something he and Martha had come up with together.  Of course.  With a sigh, he started to play.

"JEFFERSON! OPEN UP! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

Thomas opened his eyes.  Someone was pounding on his door.  Well, perhaps "someone" wasn't the most accurate term, as he knew exactly who it was.  Only one person could be  _that_ obnoxious and know the location of his dorm.

"Come in, John," he called.

The door opened and John Adams stormed in, then stopped short.  "What are you doing? You're supposed to be working." His eyes narrowed.  "Why are you holding a violin?"

"I'm not really sure how to respond to that."

"Well, stop it! Distractions are highly unproductive, especially since you have to write."

Thomas almost laughed.  "You clearly don't know anything about my writing process."

John scowled, which only made him look like a puppy trying to be ferocious.  "If your 'writing process' is that disorganized, I think you should consider improving it." He kicked at one of the piles of clutter as if to illustrate his point.  "So get to work," he added.

"Is that all?" Thomas asked.

The question seemed to catch John off-guard.  "I . . . uh . . . yeah," he said, clearing his throat.  "I'll call you in an hour to check on your progress.  And you  _better_ have made some progress."

It was obvious he meant it.  Reluctantly, Thomas set the violin down.  "Fine.  Just one thing."

John turned on his way out the door.  "What?"

Thomas smiled at him.  "Did you enjoy the music?"

Right then, before his disbelieving eyes, the miraculous happened: John Adams shut up.  Or, more accurately, he made a squeaking noise like a mouse that had been stepped on, then fled out the door, which swung shut behind him.  Thomas shrugged, then picked up his violin again.  Work could wait.

He didn't think much of the incident (apart from skipping debate in order to avoid John) for another few days.  Said days were filled mostly with the consequences of Thomas' actions finally catching up with him in the form of work he'd spent a ridiculous amount of time putting off.  When he had time to leave his dorm again, he decided he might as well get in some practice while he was at it, setting up his violin in a nearby lounge.

The room he'd chosen was blessedly empty, so he found a comfortable chair and got to work.  His violin was horrendously out of tune from days of disuse, resulting in several minutes spent tuning it.  When he finished, his fingers moved over the strings as he experimented with a newer part of his and Martha's song.  There was something he couldn't get right in this most recent addition, but he had no idea what it was.

Nevertheless, he persisted.  He fucked up chords and couldn't keep the tempo steady, but he persisted.  Eventually, he even went from sucking to being sort of okay.  This was, of course, the perfect time for someone---actually, two someones---to interrupt him.

He heard them well before he saw them.  They seemed to be having an argument without actually arguing, something of which Thomas had previously believed only he was capable.  He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but they were talking at a volume which made it impossible to not listen in.

"Tell Mary I'll pay her back as soon as I have enough money."

"You only owe her five dollars."

"Yeah, and I'll pay her when I have that kind of money lying around."

"You spent twenty dollars on coffee last week---"

"For  _you_ , because you finished the last of it and I didn't want you to go into withdrawal!"

"Okay, okay.  Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just tell Mary that I---oh my god."

"Wha---oh my  _god_."

When he heard that, Thomas knew his time being invisible was over.  Sighing, he glanced across the room.  John Dickinson and James Wilson stood staring in the doorway.

"John, that's a violin.  He's holding a violin." One of Wilson's hands hovered over Dickinson's forearm, like he wanted to put it there but couldn't decide whether or not to commit.

"I can see that." For once, Dickinson didn't look like he was formulating a snarky comment.  "Why does he have a violin?"

"I don't know!"

Thomas rolled his eyes.  "You know I can hear you, right?"

"No, we had no idea," Dickinson shot back.   _There_ was the sarcasm.  "Jefferson, I didn't know you played the violin."

Thomas, who wasn't sure how he'd managed to get into a conversation with Dickinson of all people, shrugged helplessly.  "It's . . . not really common knowledge."

Dickinson raised an eyebrow.  "Apparently not."

The pause stretched on into awkwardness.  Thomas, sensing the brief interaction drawing to a close, desperately racked his brain for a way to get rid of them while still being polite.  Nothing came to mind.

"So, I'll, uh, see you around," Thomas said, and immediately wished he hadn't.  Why did he ever leave his room? He could just stay inside and not talk to anyone.  Forever.  "I mean . . . we'll see each other again sometime."

"Or not, considering you haven't attended the last five sessions of debate."

"You sound like John Adams," Thomas said without thinking, then winced.  "Suppose I shouldn't have said that," he muttered.

It was too late.  Dickinson gasped so loudly Thomas had to stifle a laugh, pressing one hand to his collarbone in an undeniably affronted gesture.  "I am shocked and appalled that a  _gentleman_ like yourself would even  _say_ such a thing! Mr. Jefferson, I expected better from you.  Comparing  _me_ to  _John Adams_! The  _nerve_!" He tugged at his coat irritably, then stalked off, still muttering unpleasant things under his breath.  Wilson, for his part, looked almost apologetic, but scurried after his friend nonetheless.

Bemused, Thomas mentally filed away the incident for future reference.  If John knew there was a reliable method of making Dickinson go away . . . well, it could make excellent bribe material, assuming he didn't forget about it.  Which in his current state, was a very big "if".  He sighed, grabbed his violin, and traipsed back up to his dorm to make a call.

Martha smiled at him from the screen of his laptop, sitting cross-legged on her dorm bed.  She'd pinned her long blond hair up in a way that could only be described as artfully messy, with some of it spilling down over her shoulders and onto her white blouse.  Her flower-patterned skirt rustled whenever she moved.  "Hi," she said.

"Hi to you too," Thomas said, smiling almost giddily.  If he couldn't see Martha in person, Skype was the next best thing.  "You look amazing."

She laughed, shaking the camera.  "Thanks.  How are you doing? Have you been eating anything other than noodles?"

"You mean ramen and mac 'n' cheese isn't a sustainable diet?" He joked.  He savored the sparkle in her eyes when she was amused, visible even in the bad lighting.

"The second I get over there, we're going out for Chinese food."

He saluted her smartly.  "Yes ma'am.  Would you like anything else with that?"

"Oh, you  _know_ I do."

"I'll buy you some discount chocolate, then."

"Only discount?"

"At this point, it's all I can afford.  I could attach a handwritten love letter if that would help."

"Maybe a little." She tried to pout, but a smile kept tugging at the corners of her mouth.  "God, I miss you."

"I miss you too." He wanted to reach into the screen and pull her through to his room, the 310 miles between Philadelphia and Virginia be damned.  "One more week."

"One more week," she repeated with a sigh.  Suddenly, she smiled again, face lighting up with a new idea.  "Play for me."

"What?"

"Your violin.  I'm assuming you still have it?"

"Yeah, it's right here, let me just---fuck!" Leaning over to grab the instrument, he overbalanced and almost fell off his bed to gales of laughter from Martha.  "Oh, I forgot to tell you," he said, hauling himself back upright.  "There are now  _five whole people_ besides you who know I play the violin, and none of them are my music theory professor."

"Well, why's it matter who knows? You're amazing at it; you should show off your skills more."

"It's more special if it's just the two of us, though," Thomas whined, knowing he'd lose the argument.  "Besides, I'm not  _that_ good."

"Nonsense.  Now, play our song and I can accompany you."

"I do love your singing."

"Exactly!"

He sighed and reached for his bow.  "I've actually been working on a new part of that song, but I can't get it right.  Maybe you could help me out?"

Martha brightened at her victory.  "I love it when you say things like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. My friends give me shit for making innuendos out of everything, but this time, the show is doing it for me.  
> 2\. I can't write about Jefferson without mentioning a) the violin, b) swivel chairs, and c) mac and cheese  
> 3\. I will never not take the chance to include historical ladies in my writing, even if they don't actually appear in the shows I'm writing about. *eyes my Dolley Madison fic*  
> 4\. While writing this, I realized that I used way too many italics. Sorry about that.  
> 5\. Dickinson is one of those characters who's too much fun to write. Someone stop me.  
> 6\. That's all, folks! Hope you enjoyed, make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment if you did (or even if you didn't), and stay tuned for chapter 4.


	4. Inventor of the Stove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben Franklin makes shitty robots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was 100% inspired by that one Tumblr post about Simone Giertz and her terrible robots, although I know jack shit about engineering, so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Enjoy.

"What exactly are you doing?" John Adams asked as he took in the scene before him.

Ben Franklin glanced up from the long table covered with various metal parts, screws, and grommets and smiled.  "Making a robot, of course.  What else would I be doing?" 

John frowned, for once at a loss for words.  "Why are you doing that? Are you high?" Even before the words were out of his mouth, he already knew the answer.  Franklin didn't need to be high to pull shit like this.  "Actually, forget I asked."

"Gladly." Franklin returned to tinkering with what looked like a small motor.

John sighed.  He'd sought out Franklin for his opinion on a speech he'd been writing, which had been frustrating in and of itself.  Three different people had given him as many sets of directions, all completely useless.  Finally, Franklin's current girlfriend had pointed him in the direction of the engineering lab, and here he was.  "So, what kind of robot will this be? And where did you get all this  _stuff_?"

Franklin smirked.  "I used the school's 3-D printer for some of it, and there was a sale at Home Depot.  As for the robot, it's going to be shitty."

"I . . . see.  How exactly is your robot going to be 'shitty'? Will it not work, or---?"

"Oh, of course not!" Franklin looked horrified at the very thought.  "It'll work, just not very well."

"If it doesn't work very well, what's the point of making it?" John demanded.

Franklin shook his head sadly.  "John, you fail to appreciate the art of creating pure, deliberate mayhem."

"Thank god." He briefly debated asking Franklin to look over his speech, but decided against it.

"While you're here, can you hand me that thing?" Franklin asked after a minute.

"What thing?"

Franklin rolled his eyes.  " 'What thing', he says.  I never have to tell Jefferson 'what thing'."

"I'm not Jefferson," John said, irritated, then blinked.  "Wait.  You roped  _Jefferson_ into this?"

"It wasn't too hard, actually," Franklin said.  "He has a soft spot for this sort of thing.  Wait---I think he's calling me." He reached into his pocket, where sure enough, his phone was blaring an unmistakable tune.

"Franklin," John said, trying to keep his cool, "why is your ringtone 'Never Gonna Give You Up'?"

Franklin looked him straight in the eye.  "Because I knew you'd hate it."

"Right.  I'm gonna go now."

"Door's that way," Franklin said, and went back to his work like nothing had happened.

"I knew that," John muttered, maneuvering around tables of engineering students on his way to the exit.  It was only when he reached the door that another thought clobbered him over the head.  He whirled around mid-step.  "Hey, what exactly is this robot going to do?"

When Franklin looked up again, the grin on his face was nothing short of diabolical.  "It's a surprise."

"I'm starting to fear for my life."

"Oh, don't be like that.  Since when are you afraid of death, anyway?"

"Ha ha, very funny."

"Thank you! I try."

***

The next time John saw the robot, the engineering lab was much emptier (to be fair, he hardly ever visited the lab, as he wasn't an engineering student), but the robot actually looked like a robot, or at least the disassembled skeleton of one spread out over the same long table.  Seated at the table and having a very intense conversation were Franklin and some girl he'd never seen before.  John wondered fleetingly if he could escape unnoticed, but as he started inching toward the door again, Franklin spotted him and waved him over.  "John! C'mere and take a look at this!"

He had no choice but to comply.  Striding across the room, he pulled up a chair next to the strange girl, who looked him over with frank interest.  She was on the small side, with tan skin and curly brown hair she'd tied back in a short ponytail.  She wore a denim jacket with a large red rose embroidered on one shoulder over a white shirt and mint-green pants.  The jacket was a size too big.

The girl noticed him staring and offered him a smile.  "Hey."

"Uh, hey.  Franklin, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here?"

"Oh, right.  John, this is Mary Norris.  Mary, meet John Adams."

"You mean---oh my god.   _You're_ John Adams?" The girl put a hand to her mouth, eyes suddenly shining.  "Holy shit.  I can't believe I'm meeting  _John Adams_."

"Um . . ." He had absolutely no response to this.  People never had this reaction upon meeting him.  "Yes, that's me."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, fighting laughter.  "It's just that I've heard  _so much_ about you."

Well, that wasn't good.  "What do you mean?"

She bit her lip like she was considering how much to tell him.  Not a great sign.  "You drive several of my closest friends insane."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting.  "Ah.  Glad we cleared that up." An awkward silence fell over them, and he was stricken with an overwhelming desire to change the subject.  "So, are you two, like, together, or---?"

"No! God, no!" Mary said, cutting him off and looking horrified.  "I mean, no offense, Ben, but if I ever say I want to date you, do me a favor by having my head examined."

"No offense taken," Franklin said, laughing.  At John's questioning glance, he added, "Let's just say we share a deep appreciation for beautiful women."

"Ah," John said again.  Like an idiot.

After another awkward pause, it was Mary who changed the subject.  "Ben, I still think you need to make this bigger." She rapped her knuckles against a small metal box on wheels propped against a stack of grommets.  "You're not going to have room for the new motor."

"For the the last time, which one of us is the mechanical engineering major?"

"Okay, if you bring that up again, I swear to god, I'll murder you."

"I think god generally frowns upon murder."

"Eh, I'll get off on self-defense."

"Kinky."

"Shut up!"

John cleared his throat to remind them that he was still there.  "You know, if you told me what this robot is supposed to do, I might be able to weigh in on this argument."

"That is precisely why I'm not telling you," Franklin informed him.

He couldn't help letting out an offended gasp.  "Is that really what you think of me? I'm not  _that_ insufferable."

Franklin shrugged.  "Jury's still out on that one."

"Incredible.  Well, if you're just going to sit around  _insulting_ me and not telling me anything, I might as well leave now."

"Suit yourself." Franklin went back to arguing with Mary about just how much space the motor would take up.

Rolling his eyes, John stood and headed for the door.  However, he paused when he heard Mary's voice rise behind him.  "If you don't make the base bigger, the whole thing'll tip over when you add the claw!"

That was it.  In that moment, John decided he didn't want to know the context for that statement.  Still, as he slipped out the door, he heard Franklin mumble "motherfucker" and the furious scratching of a pencil.

Over the course of a couple weeks, the robot faded to the back of his mind.  He had other things to think about, like hounding Jefferson to write their essay and coming up with arguments to use against Dickinson in debate.  Most importantly, he had to wake up early enough to avoid the ridiculously long lines at his favorite coffee shop.  He'd gotten stuck in one of these lines, in fact, when he received his next reminder of the robot's existence.  All he wanted was a black coffee, but instead he had to stand behind other harried college students waiting for their caffeine fix.

Just as he started contemplating giving up and going to Starbucks, his phone pinged with a message alert.  The hubbub inside the shop all but swallowed it, but John jumped at the chance to do something other than stare at the various inspirational posters scattered around the walls.  Sliding his phone out of his pocket, he said a silent prayer for it to be Abigail texting him.

 **jeferson:** hey have you seen my screwdriver set

John frowned at the screen and tapped out a reply.

 **jn ad:** no.  why the hell would i have your screwdrivers? i didn't even know you owned screwdrivers.

 **jeferson:** wow i cant believe you admitted you dont know something

Great, now Jefferson was starting on him.  Typical.  He didn't need this so early in the morning.

 **jn ad:** i know lots of things, shut up.

 **jn ad:** why do you need screwdrivers, anyway?

 **jeferson:** im helping franklin with something

 **jn ad:** don't tell me he's still working on that robot.

 **jeferson:** ok i wont tell you

Well.  He probably should have seen that coming.  The line shifted, and he started typing again.

     **jn ad:** incredible.  and you're helping him with this?

     **jeferson:** yea pretty much lol

     **jeferson:** so youre sure you dont know where my screwdrivers are?

John considered the question.  From what he knew of Jefferson, the missing screwdrivers might be right there in his dorm.  He was absentminded enough for it to be the case, and what with all the clutter in there, it was a miracle he managed to find anything.

     **jn ad:** have you tried your room?

     **jeferson:** yes john i checked my room before asking you

     **jn ad:** maybe you should check again.  your room is not burdened with an overabundance of organization.

     **jeferson:** i think thats the most complicated way ive ever been insulted.  how much time did you spend thinking up that one?

John decided not to answer that question honestly.  He looked up from his phone, though, when he heard the barista ask for his order.  Jefferson had distracted him to the point that he hadn't realized he was at the front of the line.

     **jn ad:** i'm just being honest.  you might want to consider cleaning up once in a while.

     **jeferson:** i didnt ask for your opinion

     **jeferson:** ill see if richard found my screwdrivers now

     **jn ad:** you do that.

     **jeferson:** i will, thank you

Sighing, John shoved the phone back into his pocket and put the conversation out of his mind.

***

"What is it this time?"

"John! Good, you picked up.  Get your ass to Mary's apartment as soon as you can."

John frowned, though he knew Franklin couldn't see it over the phone.  "First of all, I don't know where Mary's apartment is.  Secondly, why?"

Franklin chuckled, which for some reason infuriated him.  "I can text you directions, so that's not a problem.  We want you there because we believe we've perfected the robot."

At this, John nearly dropped his phone.  He fumbled with it for a few seconds, swearing under his breath, before raising it back to his ear.  "What?"

"We ran some tests and worked out some bugs, and I think we've finally gotten it right.  But we're not sure, so we're trying it again at Mary's place, and in the event that we have perfected it, we'd like you to be present for our first successful test run."

"I see.  And I suppose you're still not going to tell me what it does?"

"No!" Franklin sounded genuinely shocked that he would ask.  "That would spoil the surprise.  So will you come?"

John hesitated.  He wanted to say no, but his curiosity had been piqued and there was no going back.  "Text me the directions."

Franklin whooped so loudly, John actually dropped his phone.  When he retrieved it, he could hear Franklin shouting to someone on his end, presumably Mary.  "See, I told you he'd say yes!" He couldn't make out the reply.  A second later, Franklin hung up and John's phone went off with a series of pings signalling his messages, so John started flicking through them.

After several wrong turns, a furious text argument with Franklin, and a long,  _long_ elevator ride with a couple who made out the whole time, John ended up in front of a nondescript wood door in an apartment building he'd never visited before.  Hoping to god he hadn't gotten the address wrong again, he rapped smartly on the door and waited.  Heavy footsteps thundered from the other side, and the door swung open to reveal Franklin, grinning enthusiastically with his glasses askew.  "John, perfect timing! We were beginning to think you weren't coming after all."

"Yes, well, your directions were confusing," John grumbled, stepping inside and slipping off his shoes.  "I got turned around."

Franklin clicked his tongue disapprovingly.  "John, why can't you admit your sense of direction is awful instead of blaming me?"

"Because I'd be lying.  My sense of direction is excellent."

"If you say so," Franklin said with a shrug.  "Want help with your coat?"

John declined on principle.  As he did so, he spotted Mary entering the room, her socks squeaking on the linoleum floor.  She seemed to be in the middle of an animated conversation, judging by the phone at her ear and her furious gesticulation with her free hand.

"I can't meet at the library right now . . . I have a thing . . . look, I'm really sorry, but . . . thanks.  Oh, by the way, do you have that book I lent you? . . . yes, that one." Catching sight of John and Franklin, she held up one finger and mouthed _just a sec_ , then started talking again.  "Okay, just bring it back by Sunday.  Or, hell, give it to me at Saturday tea . . . right.  Talk to you later . . . love you too.  Tell James I said hi." She hung up, tucked the phone into the pocket of her green sweatshirt, and smiled at them.  "Hello,  _John Adams._   Nice to have you here.  What do you think of my place?"

"Um . . ." John took a moment to look around.  The apartment was smaller than most, with pale green walls intersecting at right angles and a small collection of expertly arranged furniture.  A plush green couch sat near the entrance to the apartment, a small desk was pushed against one wall, and a bookshelf practically overflowing with books clung to the opposite one. 

The room led into a couple smaller antechambers, with one door to what he assumed was a bathroom.  A tiny kitchen occupied one section, containing a boxy white refrigerator, a kitchen island, and a row of cabinets above a stovetop.  On the other side of an open door were two beds on either side of a large window with their headboards against the far wall.

"The other bed's for my roommate," Mary explained, following his gaze.  "She's at work, so we can do whatever."

"That's . . . nice.  Your apartment's nice," he added as Franklin stifled a laugh.  It  _was_ nice (and well organized, with the exception of that bookshelf, which was slowly driving him insane).  "But where's the robot?"

"It's over there," Franklin said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "but we can't test it yet, we have to wait for---"

Someone knocked on the door.  "Speak of the devil," Franklin said brightly.  He bounded off to answer it, and Jefferson stepped inside wearing an orange coat that clashed horrendously with his hair.

"Hey, Franklin.  Mary." Jefferson nodded to each of them in turn.  Then his eyes fell on John.  "What are you doing here?"

"Be less tactful, Jefferson," John said with a sigh.  "Franklin invited me."

"That explains it," Jefferson said amiably, crossing the room to seat himself on Mary's couch.  "So, where are you guys hiding our creation?"

"I'm so glad you asked!" Franklin clapped his hands together like a kid who'd just heard the ice cream truck.  "Mary, could you set up the books?"

"Absolutely." When John turned to Mary, he saw the same expression of pure glee on her face.  She hurried to the bookshelf, skidding over the slick floor and nearly falling in the process.  Kneeling, she scooped up an armful of books and started lining them up with the binding parallel to the ceiling.

Finally accepting that this was going to take a while, John joined Jefferson on the couch.  "She has even more books than you do," he remarked.

Jefferson scowled at him.  "You don't have to rub it in," he complained.  "I haven't had time to stop by a bookstore lately."

"That's just as well; you need to focus on writing our essay," John told him, and Jefferson stuck out his tongue.

"Finished!" Mary said, interrupting them.  She blew a loose brown curl out of her face and grinned.  However, her expression immediately changed to concern as she straightened, staring somewhere over their heads.  "Yo, Ben, need a hand with that?"

John looked to see what prompted her question and his jaw dropped.  Franklin, the idiot, was clutching a midsize metal monstrosity and attempting to lug it across the room.  He grunted, staggering forward as his glasses slipped further down his nose.  "No, I've got it."

"Are you sure?" John, Mary, and Jefferson asked at the same time.

"Positive.  Now, if I can just---there we go!" He half set down, half dropped the robot in front of the book lineup, so John could finally get a good look at the final product.

The base of the robot was the box on wheels he'd seen in the engineering lab when he'd first met Mary.  A metal pole rose out of the box, connecting to another pole via a small joint.  Different colored wires twisted around the pole all the way the the end, where it connected to what could only be called a claw.  It looked like one in an arcade game, composed of equal parts metal and clear plastic, each tip padded with gray felt.

"Good god," John said after a moment.  

His three companions beamed at the statement.  "Wait until you see it in action," Franklin said.  He flicked a switch at the base of the robot, and it whirred to life.

The pole with the claw at the end bent, the claw clamping around the covers of the first book.  It straightened until it was at a right angle, hesitated, and dropped the book back onto the floor.  Everyone winced, but the robot puttered forward again, seizing the dropped book and flinging it onto an empty shelf where it lay, completely horizontal.  Bending a second time, the robot got ahold of another book, repeating the process so that it landed on top of the first.  A third book hit the side of the shelf, bouncing off and tumbling to the floor.

As the robot continued tossing books at the shelf, John turned to Franklin, who watched the robot with an expression typically reserved for newborn kittens.  "This is . . . great and all, but what if you need to put a book on a higher shelf? Does it telescope, or---?"

"Oh, absolutely not!" Franklin said gleefully.  "That would ruin the shittiness."

"Incredible." John dragged a hand down his face.  "Can I get some coffee?"

Franklin and Mary exchanged a glance that instantly made him apprehensive.  "Coffee maker's on the counter over there," Mary said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the kitchen.  "Of course, I'm more of a tea person, myself."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." John made his way to the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and started making his coffee, sticking the mug under the spout without thinking about it.  A minute or two went by, and he looked over to check on its progress and nearly had a heart attack.

Thin streams of burning hot coffee shot out of all sides of the dispenser, handily avoiding the mug.  One scalding spray struck the back of his hand and he yelped, cradling the hand in question as he swore, ducking behind the kitchen island.  Heart hammering, he lifted his head and saw Franklin and Mary staring at him over the back of the couch.  "God! What the hell?!"

Identical grins spread across Franklin and Mary's faces.  Together, they burst into hysterical laughter, clutching the couch and each other while Jefferson inched away from them.  "Your face!" Franklin said through cackles.  "This is the greatest day of my life!" Jefferson eyed them as if they'd lost their minds (a sentiment John endorsed wholeheartedly).

"Alright, what was that?" John demanded once they'd calmed down a little.

"Our side project," Mary explained.  "We finagled a way to fit a sprinkler head onto the dispenser of a coffee machine.  And it was AMAZING!"

John folded his arms.  "I'm never speaking to either of you again." He stomped back to the couch, flopping down beside Jefferson.  "At least  _you_ won't mock my pain."

Jefferson cocked his head with an apologetic smile.  "Sorry, John, but . . . it was pretty funny."

"Incredible," John said faintly.  "You've betrayed me in my time of need."

"I  _said_ I was sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Adams and Franklin are the definition of Vitriolic Best Buds; their relationship is so much fun to write.  
> 2\. I firmly believe that Jefferson and Franklin would work on horrible inventions together. You can pry this headcanon out of my cold, dead hands.  
> 3\. Mary has finally made her debut! According to her Wikipedia article, she corresponded with Ben Franklin IRL, so this is sorta historically accurate. She also owned lots of books (she and John donated part of their enormous library to the aptly named Dickinson College).  
> 4\. Jefferson's chat name is in reference to a very specific part of the show that's become a bit of an inside joke within my friend group.  
> 5\. In this AU, Jefferson and RHL are roommates, which is why Jefferson wants to ask him about the location of his screwdrivers.  
> 6\. I am dropping some "subtle" hints about who Mary's other friends are. All will be revealed in the next chapter, I promise.  
> 7\. Speaking of the next chapter, make sure to smash that kudos button if you haven't already, leave a comment or two, and stay tuned for chapter 5!


	5. It Is Not Yet Begun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write a Dilson development chapter, but I had a ton of different ideas for it. None of them were substantial enough to make a full chapter, so I decided to mix it up and combined them all to make this. Enjoy, y'all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me an absurdly long time to write; I hope you like it. For some context, these anecdotes are meant to be spread out over a period of weeks, so keep that in mind.

"Um, we're going to be late." James Wilson glanced nervously at the clock on the opposite wall, which told him they had less than three minutes before their next class.

"Uh huh," John Dickinson said, obviously not paying attention.  He squinted at a compact mirror from his seat in one of the ubiquitous university lounges, spending more time than seemed entirely necessary fixing his hair.  Though in James' opinion there hadn't really been anything wrong with it in the first place.

"John, the time . . ."

The time wasn't nearly as important as getting a certain lock of fluffy brown hair to stay in place.  "Uh huh.  Could you hand me the, uh, the thing?"

James passed him a comb he'd left lying on a little table just out of reach.  After fiddling with it for a moment, John finally looked up at the clock and swore loudly.  "Shit, James, we're going to be late! Why didn't you  _say_ anything?"

He barely had time to sigh before John got up and started sprinting for the door, green coat whipping around behind him as he went.  Being used to chasing after his friend everywhere he went by now, James grabbed his own stack of papers (and John's rapidly cooling cup of tea) on his way out.

The building they exited was one midsize courtyard (complete with garden) away from the building in which they needed to be in approximately 1.5 minutes, and it quickly became clear that they wouldn't make it in time.  Even worse, the frosty air made his breath steam and his glasses fog up.  He had to stop to clean them, but when he could see again, John was waving him on impatiently several feet ahead.  "C'mon, we need to move!"

In the blink of an eye, he'd seized James' unoccupied hand and taken off again, so fast he nearly spilled all his papers into the yard.  They hopped flower beds and raced over the asphalt until they arrived, out of breath, at their destination.  James' heart was going a million miles an hour, and not just because of the sprint.

John smirked, face red from cold.  "Now I remember why I've always hated running."

"Why's that? Because it messed up your hair?" James asked with a tentative smile.  He had the strangest urge to drop his things and smooth it out.

"Hm?" Frowning, John raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it even more tousled and windswept than it had been before.  "Ah well.  I can still be amazing with messy hair."

They made it to class just as the bell rang, attracting several curious glances and at least one disappointed scowl.  It wasn't until they'd taken their usual seats by the windows that James thought to reclaim his hand.

***

Cursed and muttered ranting weren't an unusual thing to hear when John entered their apartment after his journalism class.  In fact, James had grown so accustomed to this that he only glanced up from his book out of habit.

"Honestly," John growled, kicking the door shut as if it had personally offended him and violently shaking the snow from his coat.  "Why can they never . . . god, this is . . ." He brushed off more snow, though James couldn't help but think it looked lovely against his hair.  "Oh, hey James."

"Hey.  What---?"

As usual, John didn't pause long enough to hear his response.  "Class ran overtime _again_ because  _someone_ wouldn't stop picking fights with the prof, so I had to trek back here through the snow.  I swear, if I freeze to death one of these days, I need you to sue Adams in my stead.  Also, write me a nice eulogy."

It was almost mesmerizing, the way he moved and talked, and James watched him, book forgotten.  His friend didn't seem to notice him staring, so he figured it was safe to look.

This hypothesis was immediately disproven when John carelessly tossed his gloves aside and glanced over before James could look away.  He quirked a brow but said nothing, and after a tense pause, moved on.  "You look cozy.  Did you make me hot cocoa?"

"Um . . ." He actually had tried to make hot cocoa, but ended up burning and discarding it.  "Sorry."

"Chill, I wasn't being serious." John took a seat beside him on the couch, kicking his legs to the side and generally taking up more than his fair share of the available space.  James didn't have a chance to move over, however, because that was when John leaned over and slipped an arm around him.  Icy fingers brushed the back of his neck.  "Mm, you're warm." John's other arm joined the first.  "Of course, I wouldn't be so cold if I hadn't had to walk all the way----mind if I put my head here?---all this way through the goddamn snow . . ."

He paused to scoot even closer, and the temperature in the room shot up 10 degrees.  "I need an excuse to steal all your sweaters."

James silently prayed he wasn't blushing.  "You'd look very nice in them, John, but they wouldn't fit you." He was blushing.

"Eh, I'm sure I could pull it off.  You have excellent taste in sweaters." This somehow made him blush more.  "You could also just buy one in my size."

"But . . . then I couldn't wear it."

"Exactly!" John's grin dissolved any further opposition.  They relaxed into each other again, John happily continuing on the subject of his class (despite having said most of it already), and James making a valiant effort to pretend he was listening.

***

"Why are you still awake?"

James jumped.  He'd been sitting on the couch across the room from his friend in silence for quite a while, so hearing John speak was jarring.  Now that he thought about it, it was rather dark out, but he wasn't particularly tired anyway.

"You're awake," he pointed out.

"What's that got to do with anything? You don't have to stay awake just because I am; you have an 8 AM class tomorrow."

"So?" All his better judgement told him that this wasn't a fight worth picking, but he ignored it, as he was wont to do where John was concerned.  "I can skip class.  It's not a big deal."

He knew he'd pushed too far, though, when John kicked his own chair back and turned toward him, arms folded.  "James.  C'mon.  Sleep with me."

James fell off the couch.

In his attempts to climb back on, he nearly tipped the damn thing over twice and John watched, exasperation increasing exponentially by the second.  "Um, what?" He finally managed.

It took John a moment to realize the implications of what he'd said.  Once he did, he looked momentarily off-balance but recovered quickly, rolling his eyes.  "I meant _sleep_ , James.  Jesus Christ.  It's cold, we're both tired, and you're basically a human space heater, so let's just go to bed, okay?"

"Okay." His voice wasn't as steady as he would've liked.  Getting to his feet, he returned the couch to an upright position and followed his friend to the bedroom.  Actually going to bed turned out to be a bit more complicated.

After changing in their bathroom, John returned to find James struggling with what exactly to do.  He looked on for about three minutes (record time) before losing patience.  "Oh my god.  Look, I'll sleep here---" he nudged James aside to lie down in a starfish position "---and you can take the other side; I know you like looking out windows when you think."

"Oh.  Thanks." Carefully, he oriented himself at what he deemed a safe distance from his roommate (who somehow managed to look cute in green sweatpants and a tank top).  When he'd done so, John gifted him one of his endearingly self-assured smiles, which he hesitantly returned.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was perfectly capable of closing the distance between them and giving his friend a kiss.  He wasn't sure where the thought had come from, and he certainly wasn't planning on actually doing so, but the idea that he could, itself, was mind-blowing.

Then he blinked, and the revelation was lost.  Refocusing on John, he thought for a moment that his friend would say something, but instead he rolled over to turn out the light.

Following his example, James turned away and stared out the window.  However, sleep eluded him as he became aware of just how close together they were.  He could hear John snoring gently, his presence warm and reassuring, and he had to spend more time than he would've liked trying to remember how to breathe.  Right before his eyes drifted shut, he heard bed springs creak.  Something that felt a lot like an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him into a sleepy hug.

***

Sunlight streamed through slits in their blinds the next morning, slowly dragging John back to consciousness.  He groaned, burying himself in blankets, but the damage was done.  Covers fell away as he sat up, stretched . . . and nearly hit James in the face.  Of course.  He'd forgotten he had a bedmate.

"Morning," James said.  He looked oddly embarrassed, though John was too tired to try and figure out why.

"Morning to you, too.  See, that wasn't such a disaster.  Sleep well?" He didn't wait for a reply.  "How do you always wake up so early? I remember that time I tried to get up before you, but when I did, you were already up and making breakfast.  I think it was also the time the apartment almost caught on fire."

James started to say something, but John had long since moved on.  "Maybe it's the coffee.  You drink all my coffee."

"Sorry," his roommate said, looking away.  "Did you want me to stop, or---?"

"I don't mind," John cut him off with a lazy wave of the hand.  "I only buy that stuff for you anyway." He frowned.  "Wait, why are you still here? You have class in, like, five minutes." Finally, he got up the energy to puzzle over the that strange embarrassment, rotating pieces in his head until . . . _oh_.  "Were you watching me sleep?"

James' eyes went wide.  Hints of pink spread up his neck and face, a few half sentences that in no way resembled an answer escaping his mouth.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  "Um, maybe a little.  For a minute before you woke up.  I'm really sorry, it's just, well . . . you look nice when you're asleep." The pink turned to scarlet.  "Sorry."

"It's fine," John assured him, although there was something about how shy, confused, and self-conscious his friend looked that made a peculiar warmth rise in his chest.  "You're sweet; I'm flattered." That was odd.  He could remember a time when he wouldn't have cared one way or the other, but now . . . well, it was weird.

"I---um---sorry?---I mean---that is to say---"

John put up with this floundering for an impressive amount of time (by his standards), then cut him off to save him further mortification.  "Shush.  I don't  _mind_.  We should do this again sometime."

*** 

Adding a final sentence to his barely-coherent notes, John closed his browser and headed back toward his library table of choice.  He wove through the maze of bookshelves, past group of suffering college students huddled around piles of paper, and briefly wondered what he could finish in the next 7.3 minutes and what could wait for 11 PM before he was distracted by the sound of voices.

"Can we talk about this later? I'm working." James' voice, quiet yet firm.

"You can't keep avoiding this! C'mon, you're gonna have to say something to him eventually." The second John heard the other voice, his face split into an uncontrollable grin.  He hadn't expected to see her today, but it was a welcome surprise.

"No I won't.  I can just . . . it's fine.  I'm fine.  I'll be fine."

"That's a lie, and you know it."

John chose that moment to interrupt this highly intriguing conversation.  Stepping out from behind a heavy oaken bookshelf, he took in the scene: two of his favorite people sitting across a table from each other, a mess of papers between them.  They were conversing animatedly, but one looked up and waved.  "Hey!"

He waved back, strolling over to their table.  " 'Sup, Mary?"

Mary Norris smiled back at him.  "Speak of the devil." She wore her usual denim jacket with the enormous rose embroidered on one shoulder.  "We were just talking about you---"

" _No we weren't_ ," James interrupted, then looked away, embarrassed.  "Mary, can we please talk later?"

"Oh, don't stop talking just because I'm here," John said, stealing a chair from a neighboring table.  "I love hearing people talk about me."

"I know you do," Mary said, ruffling his hair affectionately.  "But I gotta go now, and you can just interrogate James if you really want to know what we were talking about.  See you for Saturday tea?"

"Hell yeah." He pointed a finger gun at her, which she returned before disappearing into the shelves.  The second she was gone, John turned to his remaining friend.  "Okay, spill.  What were you two saying?"

James was very determinedly not looking at him.  He mumbled something unintelligible, his fingers drumming restlessly on the table.  Noting this (and the conspicuously empty thermos beside his hand), John made a mental note to add coffee to their shopping list.  "It's nothing," he said eventually.  "Mary was just talking about something I told her.   _In confidence_."

John frowned.  "You two keep secrets from me?"

"Just little ones."

"Huh.  So, what's the---?"

"Please don't, John.  Please?"

The interruption left him temporarily speechless (a rare occurrence, to say the least).  He was even more confused than he had been before he began this line of questioning, but he decided to change the subject.  "Um, okay.  Can I borrow your notes? I wrote half of mine at 3 AM."

"Of course."

***

A clock ticked steadily away as John hammered out a paper, fingers cramping and vision blurry.  Silently, he cursed his own overconfidence.  Staying up past midnight to complete his work always  _seemed_ like a spectacular idea until it became clear that it wasn't.  He groaned, shaking out his hands to prepare for another typing session.

James' voice cut through the silence.  "Are you going to bed soon?" He perched on the end of a love seat, face slightly concerned, which was gratifying (and a little sweet).

"Is 'no' an acceptable answer?" John stifled a yawn.  "I need to finish this." He typed another few words (and a string of nonsense letters) before he felt a light hand on his shoulder.

"You need rest, John." Possibly the closest thing to stern James had ever been with him.  

Swiveling his chair around to face his friend, John forced a smile.  "It's fine! You can go if you want." Something about James' frown made John want to kiss him.  Probably just sleep deprivation.

"John, I---" his eyes widened.  "Is that my sweater?"

"Maybe." The gray cable-knit was warm and soft, quite comfortable, despite exposing some of his midriff when he stretched.  "Told you I could pull it off."

"Oh.  Yeah, that's . . . wow." He cleared his throat, twice.  "But . . . um . . . bed?"

John yawned again.  He couldn't deny he needed sleep.  "Fine, fine.  But I want you with me again." Wait, what?

Before he could rethink, the hand on his shoulder disappeared.  "You what? After last time?"

"I thought last time went well." James' mouth opened, perhaps to object, and John cut him off before he could.  "You do want me to sleep, right?"

"I---yes.  Okay." He moved closer again, and it became  _very_ difficult not to kiss him.  Definitely sleep deprivation.  "Um, if you don't mind my asking---"

"I don't."

"---why are you looking at me like that?"

John snapped out of it and stood.  "No reason.  Let's get to bed."

***

"You're staring again."

"Hm?"

"Oh, nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I went through 6 drafts of this. It was surprisingly hard to stay within my self-imposed word limit, but after last chapter, I figured y'all wouldn't mind.  
> 2\. If you're paying attention, you've probably noticed that this chapter is the reason for about half the tags on this thing. I'm a sucker for good old-fashioned fluff.  
> 3\. The coffee-versus-tea debate isn't really relevant to anything, but I'm kinda proud of it for one reason only: symbolism.  
> 4\. Again, I can never decide whether to use first or last names; please don't be mad at me (anyone who read my original drafts, this bit is for you).  
> 5\. I tried my damndest to keep this in character, but I really don't have much to work with in that regard. I hope I did okay.  
> 6\. In this fic, Mary is John's ex-girlfriend, but they're still friends.  
> 7\. If you liked it, give me a comment and a kudos, they really mean a lot, and sit tight for the next chapter. Thanks, and have a wonderful day (or night)!


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